Learning the true language of love
by I'm Nova
Summary: Unilock. Sherlock is in a relationship with Jim, who abuses him (obviously). John is Mary's boyfriend, and tired of her lording her superior knowledge of languages over him. When they meet on a language-learning app, a happy end is guaranteed. Happy birthday, Missmuffin221!


_Disclaimer: I own nothing. A.N. Happy Birthday Bienchen! Many happy returns. I hope this is fine, and you'll enjoy my little story. So many thanks to Chrwythyn for betaing this – you wouldn't have understood a word otherwise! ^^'''_

Learning the true language of love

It wasn't that John didn't trust Mary. Of course he did. She was his girlfriend, and honestly, better than he deserved. A bit snarky, yeah, but John wouldn't want a doormat, too clingy type either. If she always managed to make him feel a bit stupid – despite him being the one studying proper medicine, while she was following the course to become a nurse – it wasn't her fault.

Still, she moved a lot growing up, so of course she knew a ton of languages – and she was still chatting online with people from all over the world. Half her e-mails (not that John read them out of jealousy, but sometimes she'd forget to exit her account after borrowing his computer) were in idioms John didn't even recognise. He had no idea about why, actually, she travelled so much, but apparently, Mary herself took it as one of the facts of life and wasn't interested in inquiring about what she couldn't change anyway. John liked to joke she must be the child of two secret agents, to elicit her adorable, tinkling laugh.

He'd finally decided to stop feeling like an idiot and do something about it. Sure, he was busy – these exams wouldn't pass themselves, after all. But there was a website – a free one, too – which promised to teach you almost any language with a handful of minutes a day. Surely, he can spare ten minutes to become one of the people mailing Mary in all languages. Or French, at least. French was supposed to be romantic, right? His girlfriend would certainly appreciate him making the effort and it would be a nice surprise.

John was quickly disappointed. The website was not so bad, really – but it consisted almost entirely of exercises, with only the barest hints of an explanation. It wasn't really working for him. He kept at it only because he was stubborn. One thing he did was to make use of the comments section for each sentence, to request the explanations he should have got otherwise. Sometimes other people answered, sometimes not. Sometimes they did, and they sounded as clueless as he was (plus with a rather shaky idea of the English language in the first place), so he ignored whatever they said.

Until the day he was asking about demonstratives, and he received a veritable essay as a reply. The author, SH (his icon is the photo of a rather cute bee), was taking so many courses that it took a good three lines of flags to show them all, and he seemed to be at an obscenely high level in all of them. Of course, John was in awe. And of course he said as much. _Thank you so much. I finally understood this. You're amazing!_

A moment later, he received a private message from SH. He wasn't even aware this site had the option, and he fumbled a bit until he found it (he was as close to technologically illiterate as he could be in his day and country). But finally he read, _Why would you say that? SH_

 _What? Thank you? …Because you explained?_ He added a puzzled emoticon. Seriously, were people getting surprised by basic politeness now? Was the web so bad?

 _Don't be purposefully obnoxious. Playing oblivious does not become someone who picked the nickname doctor, even followed by gibberish. SH_ was the immediate reply.

John couldn't help it. He chuckled. _It's not gibberish. It's a Doctor Who reference. Don't tell me you've never watched that show!_ DoctorwithoutaTARDIS seemed like a funny name – and appropriate. True, he wasn't technically a doctor yet, but he was on his way towards that goal. And like everyone else, he'd dreamt of finding a stray TARDIS and correcting a few timelines, starting with his own. (It might technically be forbidden, but it was all a fantasy anyway, so who cared?)

 _If I have, I deleted it. I certainly don't have brain space to waste on shows. And you haven't answered me still. SH_

There was no emoticon, but John had the impression the stranger was getting annoyed at him, which was hardly fair. Besides, deleted? From their computer? You'd still know if you watched it…Or do they mean forgotten? With so many languages in their head, it was no wonder if words got crosswired. He actually needed to think a moment to remember what he said, because it was nothing much. _Amazing? Are you seriously asking why I called you amazing? I mean, it's obvious…because you are. :-)_

 _My brother never stops reminding me I'm the stupid one. SH_ Honestly, Sherlock had no idea why he'd admitted that. He never talked to people on websites. He didn't chat. Why would he? Everyone was an idiot and/or hated him anyway. Everyone but Jim. Jim, who thought Sherlock was amusing enough to tolerate. Who'd got him clean, saving his life (even if Sherlock suspected that his lover had enjoyed a bit too much enforcing the rules with the harshest of methods). And now he was here – talking. Keeping the conversation going. Worse – fishing for compliments, if he was entirely honest with himself. Because it was such a foreign experience, and he _liked_ it.

 _So does my sister. But she's a twat. And I'm pretty sure your brother is, too. I mean, that many languages? Of course you're a genius. :-)_ John raised an eyebrow, reading the text. Siblings were always unsufferable, were they? Was there some rule about it? Out of curiosity, he added, _What does SH stand for?...If I'm not too nosy?_

 _Sherlock Holmes. That's my actual name, in case you wonder. I've had a good many classmates insisting I stop using an alias._ And here he was again, oversharing. At least he suspected he might be oversharing. But his awful habit of talking without filtering everything that went through his brain applied to texting too, it seemed.

 _Special all the way, uh? :-)_ _Look, can I text you again if I get stuck with something? I promise, I'm not an idiot, but with this website giving no more than a line of explanations, I'm finding it hard to figure out._ So maybe this was too pushy, but even from two messages, John found himself wanting to talk more to the unique man he'd accidentally connected to.

 _Sure. SH_ So that was it. The flattery was because this stranger wanted to use him. Still, he agreed before even consciously thinking about it. He'd always refused scornfully when classmates tried to use him for his brain – there was a reason his boyfriend was as smart as him…But apparently, the only reason for his integrity was that they were too stupid to offer what Sherlock ached for. A second of praise and recognition, and Sherlock didn't mind being a private tutor for some random bloke.

A bloke with a friendly face, if his icon was even a selfie – it was all too easy to take any random photo from the web and pretend it was you. Not that his appearance had any importance. He had Jim. And the looks of the transport one got saddled with couldn't be helped. Sherlock knew that all too well. What with his weird face, and overabundance of sharp angles. He was so lucky Jim could tolerate him.

And about Jim…he was going to be so angry if he discovered this. Especially if Sherlock kept his word and continued texting the man. His boyfriend admitted freely his moods were fickle, and there was a jealous streak in him that the violinist was terrified to incite.

Thinking about the unfortunate… accident with Victor still made Sherlock taste bile. But Jim had apologised afterward, been so sweet…and Sherlock should really have known better than to think he could earn a friend.

He should just write back and tell DoctorwithoutaTARDIS to leave him alone. He could. Instead, he sneaked out, heart in his were things he needed to do. First of all, buy another, disposable mobile phone. Then, pad the secret pockets in his clothes Jim had no reason anymore to check for drugs so that the phone wouldn't be visible, or thud in a tattle-tale way if he undressed and threw his clothes around haphazardly.

And then, from his new phone, heart in his throat, because what he's doing is dangerous – but Jim isn't following him, he had checked – he texted his new number to DoctorwithoutaTARDIS' account. _For any questions you might have. SH_ He should have said 'French questions', shouldn't he? It wasn't like they were going to make small talk. Sherlock was awful at small talk, anyway. Seriously, what was he thinking? A stranger shouldn't make him crave for contact. Everyone was dull anyway. Another question or two, and he'd throw his new phone away, disgusted with this person's idiocy, he was sure.

 _Thank you! :-)_ _Name's John, by the way. Sorry if I didn't mention it yet, Sherlock_. The reply came immediately, and it should have been a disappointment. Possibly fakest name in existence, or hinting at boring, unimaginative parents. Emoticons. John seemed to be fond of emoticons. Sherlock despised them.

One should mask whatever emotions they felt – that had been his brother's lesson – or don them like pretty clothes you could discard a moment later – Jim's. Going out of your way to express them? That was so stupid it bordered on madness. Something told him all these ridiculous smiles weren't an act, either. John was probably really happy his new acquaintance would be tutoring him for free. And so he smiled. And thanked. And was generally polite. It should be boring. Why wasn't it boring?

John, on his end of the line, didn't expect a phone number. A bit of contact through their Duolingo account, sure. A number? That was a surprise. A pleasant one, though. Maybe Sherlock was a bit lonely? After all, someone who studied that many languages – besides being a genius, obviously – couldn't have much time for socializing. A language might take you ten minutes, but thirty or so? Besides, that was only the website. Add school, or work, or whatever the man did – that was more hours he wasn't having fun with friends.

Still, he kept his messages strictly language-related for a while. Sometimes Sherlock replied in seconds, sometimes he took hours – but that was fine. The man had a life, after all. From there, they slipped into making fun of the sometimes ridiculous sentences. Seriously, who the hell needs to say, "It's my first cow"?

Sherlock had a theory for that. Actually, he confessed that he remained on the website not so much for the languages, but for the fun of coming up with scenarios where one might need to say these things. John immediately joined in on the fun, coming up with even more outlandish circumstances where the most absurd phrases made a scary amount of sense.

Still, John thought this was only a harmless bit of fun. It wasn't until he was on a date with Mary and she chided him – rather sharply, but could you blame her? – for letting his mind wander, instead of paying attention to the conversation, that he realised. He was trying to come up with something really funny for the website's latest apparently nonsensical remark. Hoping to make Sherlock laugh. While on a date with his girlfriend. Bit not good, that.

John apologised promptly, of course, And lied, mentioning worry over his upcoming exam as the cause for his distraction. Judging from the narrowing of her eyes, Mary hadn't been fooled – it was terribly hard to deceive her, so John usually didn't even try – but she didn't press the issue.

 _Why_ had he lied, actually? It wasn't just because he'd met Sherlock on a website he didn't want to admit he frequented. He could be vague and say 'on the web'. No, now that he thought about it, he hadn't mentioned Sherlock to anyone, even if the man was in his mind way too often. He felt as if he had just found a treasure, and he didn't want to share it with the world just yet. Bit not good to feel like that about a mate, too, if he had to be honest with himself.

As soon as he had a chance to text Sherlock – in _privacy_ – he sent, _I got distracted during dinner date with my girlfriend by trying to think of an occasion where one could say 'L'homme est en train de faire la banane'that did not entail some sort of weird sex fetish. I failed. XD It was one of the wrong options in the Present unit, by the way._ What the fuck did "the man is in the process of making the banana" even _mean_ , by the way?

The reply was immediate. _Do you need help? SH_

 _To get my mind out of the gutter? Maybe, LOL._ It would be better if he ignored the wrong sentences, maybe. The correct ones made little sense as it was.

 _Don't be stupid, John. Are you hurt? If you're still being ridiculous, I'll assume not. SH_ If Sherlock was one for emoticons, he would have looked for an annoyed, huffing one.

 _Hurt? No, of course not. She's not slapped me for it, if that's what you're worried about. And anyway, that would not have hurt…for long_ John replied, smiling at his friend's concern. He hadn't pegged Sherlock for a worrywart, but it was…sweet of him.

 _Lucky man. Jim would have lost it if I did that. SH_ arrived then.

 _Jim?_ John queried. Lose it was a strong word. Who was the bastard who thought they could attack him?

This time, the silence stretched and stretched – until the following afternoon, at that. Giving John ample time to worry he'd been too nosy, or somehow made his friend angry. True, they didn't really speak of their personal lives…but Sherlock had mentioned him first. Surely he would have expected John to ask? But while their texting had always been sort-of inconstant, usually the man's silence never stretched past a four or five hours. And so John fretted.

Finally, the truth came out. _Jim is my boyfriend. He came in unexpectedly as we were talking – honestly, if I were inclined to superstition I'd say I summoned him by mentioning him – and, well… he likes to be the center of everyone's attention. SH_

All sorts of alarm bells went out in John's head. Some about himself – here they were, both in committed relationships, and he didn't seem to be able to stop thinking about Sherlock. True, that was possibly because, for all his wit, the man had been very reticent about himself…and John could never resist a touch of mystery. Still, his own feelings were rather awfully jumbled.

Many, many more flags were suddenly raised about this Jim dude, though. He would 'lose it' if Sherlock was distracted? He needed everyone to attend to his whims to the point where Sherlock hadn't thought that shooting him a quick, _Busy, I'll explain later_ , was a good idea?

 _He doesn't sound like a very good boyfriend_ , John texted instinctively. He deserved to be told to mind his own fucking business, yes, but he couldn't help himself. If he knew any details of his new friend's personal life, he'd head over to Sherlock's house and make a scene, trying to split them up. Probably for the best that he didn't, actually.

 _Better than I deserve. I really tend to rub people the wrong way, John. SH_ It was his fault. Of course it was his fault. The sheer fact that Jim hadn't tossed him out like so much rubbish yet meant that his boyfriend was almost a saint. Anyone else would have done so long ago. Sherlock was lucky that he proved marginally entertaining still.

 _Don't be so self-deprecating. What are you, fishing for compliments, genius?_ ;-) John typed quickly. How could anyone not be in awe of the man? He knew little of him, true. But he knew that Sherlock was amazingly smart, had a wicked sense of humour, and a vivid imagination. Certainly, that should be enough to make him popular?

Curled on his sofa, Sherlock flinched. Fishing for compliments was bad. Jim would get angry if he thought he was doing so. His boyfriend praised him, when he was in the mood, honey-sweet and lyrical. But Sherlock had to have earned that first. Trying to defend himself, he texted, _Just stating facts. SH_

 _You're wrong. And I bet you,_ John retorted.

 _What? SH_ The amateur chemist was very, very tempted to add a puzzled emoticon. He was starting to think Mycroft might, for once in his life, have been wrong. A quick way to show "you're not making any sense", recognised as not offensive like the actual words, might have been useful, in limited circumstances. These figures looked too ridiculously childish for him to be comfortable using, though.

 _Look, don't take this the wrong way, but I would love to meet you. In person. And you could be your usual self, and I bet you that I still wouldn't become angry at you. And I'll warn you, I'm no Buddhist – I have a bit of a temper myself_. John wrote, feeling stupidly daring. He was just going to meet an internet friend. It wasn't anything.

 _But then you'll have a very strong motivation to endure me, what with wanting to win the bet. SH_ He replied. This was a stupid idea. Very stupid. It was risky enough to keep texting. Like this, if Jim discovered him, he would already be furious. But if Sherlock went behind his back to see someone, and Jim realised…the very worst thing Jim could do was leave him. He was all Sherlock had. If he lost Jim, he would be absolutely alone. No matter how much he liked John, how much the other boy made him smile time and again.

 _Then we'll bet a coffee. Surely you don't think I would endure someone hateful like you seem to be convinced you are – and God knows why, you're so funny – for a mere coffee? I might not be rich, but I'm not *that* desperate. ;-)_ John wrote back. He'd never seen Sherlock – not even a selfie, or anything – and he admitted that he was curious. And he looked forward to meeting his new…friend. (It had to be a friend. He had a girlfriend, for crying out loud! And Mary was brilliant. The best John had ever met.)

 _Coffee tomorrow at 3 PM? Or do you have lessons? SH_ He added the address of his favourite haunt in a post scriptum. Wait, had he agreed? Why had he agreed? True, Jim would be at his course on computer coding at the time. It should be risk-free. And he could take a walk by Regent's Park after John yelled at him, to calm his nerves. Maybe visit the zoo. He loved the zoo. Still, he shouldn't have consented – much less proposed a venue himself. Jim would discover it. And get angry. If he had a friend, he would have someone stopping him from being so _stupid_.

 _It's a date. ;-)_

 _No, it's not._

 _I know you have a boyfriend, Sherlock. I have a girlfriend._

 _I was joking, you know?_

 _But yes, tomorrow there is perfect. See you._

Sherlock stared at the barrage of texts. The first one made his heart skip a bit, but apparently, he wasn't the only one panicking. Joking. Joking with…friends? Could he even claim to have a friend, once again? Was it wise? (No, of course not. Nothing about this relationship had been wise, from the very start.)

If Sherlock took heed of his appearance more than usual the following day, it was just because he wanted to give a good impression. Besides, as much as Jim didn't mind him staying in the flat in ratty pyjamas, or even just a sheet, it would reflect badly on his boyfriend if he went around like a bum. So for his not-date he picked to wear dark, practically painted on jeans, a dark blue shirt just the tiniest bit too tight (he really should have shopped for a new wardrobe once he got clean, but there was never time, Jim proposing way more entertaining activities when he wasn't studying), and a coordinated denim jacket. It made his iridescent eyes settle, highlighting the blue in them, instead of the specks of other nuances. It made him just a bit less odd.

He was at the café at 3 on the dot, and he had to wait ten tense minutes, no one looking even close to John's selfie coming in. Exactly while he was trying to decide if he'd been stood up or if the selfie was fake in the first place and one of the other customers was inwardly laughing at his patient wait, John arrived, face ruddy and hair tousled from having run here.

The blond stopped at the door, panting, and looked around, only to remember Sherlock had not sent a selfie, described himself or promised to wear or bring anything to allow himself to be recognised. Shoulders sagging, he slowly made his way to the bar.

John was trying not to disappointed by his own idiocy, when a deep voice – definitely closer than he expected – rumbled, "Bounjour le lapin! Comment ça va?"

He startled, then laughed, turning immediately towards the other boy, exclaiming happily, "Sherlock!" After all, who else would greet him in French by quoting, "Good day rabbit! How are you?" if not someone who'd had the endure the website's insanity? "I'm sorry I'm a bit late, and…well, like this, but…" he added, with a sweeping gesture at himself.

"You had an autopsy this morning, which made inadvisable to put on your best clothes and you thought you'd have time to go back home to have lunch and change, but a friend cornered you and refused to take no for an answer because he needed something explained during lunch break. You thought that rather than reschedule or warn me of a very long delay, in case you did go back home, showered, changed and then came here, coming as you were would be less of a disappointment for me. You were right," Sherlock cut in, quick and sharp.

John gaped, like a particularly attractive fish. "Did Mike text you? I didn't know that you knew him," he asked.

"Of course not, I just observed. Faded (with time and use, not the artistically faded trousers you see around) tracksuit trousers and a grey hoodie proclaiming, 'Future college, symbol is very hard, A people,' is hardly something you'd deem adequate to make a good first impression. And as a popular person, you are used to being liked. Besides, there's the tiniest smell clinging to you – oh, don't worry, it's just my nose which is hypersensitive, you're not disturbing anyone – which tells me about your morning autopsy. As for spending your lunch hour explaining…you left the pencil you used to help this Mike understand – by underscoring his books, I'd bet – in your pocket. It's peeking out. If you'd used it during any of your lessons, this morning, you would have put it back in your backpack with the rest of your notebooks, pens, and so on," the taller boy rapped out quickly.

Oh no. he'd done it again. He'd accidentally deduced John. Why could he never keep his mouth closed? Now his new, funny, fascinating (he could admit it, if only to himself, now that he was going to lose him anyway) friend was going to hate him. Well, the silver lining was that he'd just won his bet. He still had the satisfaction of being right, he supposed. Since he hadn't been punched in the first three seconds (which were all he needed to panic like this), he would probably not get hit at all. Small mercies.

Instead, John, after a few second of being utterly stunned, breathed reverently, "That. Was. Brilliant!"

"Was it?" Sherlock inquired, frowning. Ordinary people would either insult or hit him. Mycroft would sniff haughtily and mention how he'd missed at least three details that would offer vital information in order to manipulate his victim ('That's what deduction is for, honestly, when will you learn, Sherlock?'). Jim…Jim would smile, and tell him 'clever boy', and Sherlock would choose to ignore how his tone was closer to the way he'd treated Redbeard than to the way other boys treated their lovers. Praise was praise.

"Of course it was! It was positively amazing. I mean, I already knew you were a genius, but you know, I thought, maybe you were just an academic genius. Turns up you're not just good with books, you'd be gripping as the subject of one. A mystery, maybe. You'd be able to crack a locked room murder in a minute, I bet!" the blond ranted enthusiastically.

A lovely red spread on Sherlock's face, up to the ears and down his throat. Not even Victor had been so vocal, and he'd suggested the same. Ah, about that – yes, remember Victor. Things didn't go well when he caved in to flattery. "You bet too much," he replied gruffly.

Instead of being offended, John laughed. "Yup! I do, but I can't resist anything that gets me a thrill."

The bartender had been serving other people on the side, but he finally turned to them, interjecting rather sternly, "Do you two guys want to order?"

They did, John turning an apologetic hundreds-watt smile on him, which mollified the man immediately, and in a moment they were taking their coffees (and a sandwich, because the blond had missed lunch, and he needed something before his stomach started gurgling) to a corner table.

"Anyway, what do you do? I mean, you knew all about me on sight, and all I know is that you're funny, so smart that I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't actually met you, and that you have a very good reason to have a bee as your avatar online," John asked, before biting into his sandwich with relish.

Unless his new acquaintance toned down his instinctive praise (it wasn't flattery to get anything out of him; the blond wasn't that desperate for a free coffee), Sherlock was going to be permanently stained red. Still, he replied vaguely, "Oh, I'm just…studying. I mean, my major would technically be Chemistry…oh, don't make that face, of course it's not something literary, Duolingo is a hobby. Anyway, I will probably never get my degree, because there are some side subjects required which are simply too boring. My mind is like a hard-disk, I'm not going to cram it with junk when there are so many more interesting subjects…Criminology, Encryption, etcetera…not even temporarily."

"Your mind is a hard disk?" John echoed, puzzled.

"Sorry, boyfriend is a programmer, that's how I usually explain things to him. You're a doctor, or you'll be soon. You know that we have a limited number of neurons. Ergo, I have limited space to accumulate memories. It makes sense that I would only keep subjects that didn't bore me to death – that way, I can actually remember what I want to. Otherwise, you'll find out that you're trying to remember carbon catenation but all you can recall is yesterday night's quiz show…I really don't know why people can't figure that out," Sherlock huffed.

"You know, that makes sense," the blond admitted, smiling, "though the quizzes – or movies, or shows – make for a good deal of fun."

"Of course it does, unlike what you say. What does it mean that I have a very good reason for my bee avatar? What reason should I have if not everyone else's – that I like bees, because they are way more sensible than human beings?" the lanky boy retorted, looking baffled himself.

"Ah, well, of course you'd pick bees because you think they're cute. What I should have said is that you had a very good reason not to have a selfie avatar like I do. After all, you're so gorgeous that if you did you'd be flooded with unsolicited dick pics, and female assets pics, and just about anyone's. And if it's annoying in general, with you having a boyfriend, that'd be even worse," John remarked casually.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "I don't think bees are _cute_. I appreciate their complex social structure," he pointed out sternly. Besides, why would John lie about his beauty? He was tolerable, he supposed, but had way too many angles and was too pale to attract people. Why, a classmate of Jim had pursued his boyfriend for a long time, apparently unable to take a no. Luckily for Sherlock, the man was too boring for Jim to even consider. His self-appointed rival had proclaimed loudly – and in his presence – that Jim deserved better than someone whose face looked like a cat's anus. So why was John lying like that, and how could he exhibit no signs of dissimulation?

"Of course. Whatever you say, Sherlock," John agreed, with another soft smile.

From that, the conversation flitted about. The young chemist went on a rant about bees' social life, to prove he was serious in his passion about them, and instead of being miffed his friend nodded and made intelligent remarks. From that, they went to human beings' social customs (which made no sense, according to Sherlock), and then their own, and then…Sherlock would have been able to quote the whole conversation, not just after a day, but years down the line.

But more than the subjects, what mattered was the easy, happy mood between them. How they could discuss anything, only catching themselves after, wondering if what they'd said was weird, or too personal, and finding that the other never reacted with sneers or judgment. It was no wonder they lost all cognition of time.

Until John got a text, and – with Sherlock's permission – checked it…only to read, _Are you fine, John? You've missed the last two courses…but if you can at all, try to drag yourself here. You know how Norton is about attendance. :3_ It was Molly, bless her sweet soul, and the aspiring doctor checked the hour to find it was six thirty. He'd meant to stay fifteen minutes!

"Sorry, Sherlock, have to dash. If I don't go to the lesson I have in ten minutes the prof will skin me!" he apologised with a last smile, before running off. At least, he didn't have to worry about the tab – he'd definitely won his bet, because he found Sherlock more than likeable and, honestly, a bit adorable.

The other boy was mentally whiplashed by the change from a very engaging conversation to being left suddenly bereft. How long had it even been since he'd talked to anyone but Jim for a considerable stretch of time? No, no, don't wonder that, don't let your mind go there. What was baffling was that this wasn't an agreed 'get me out of here' message. There wasn't the slightest hint on John that he expected the text – or that he wasn't really worried about an insane teacher. His friend had overstayed (wait…overstayed? What time was it?).

With a shudder, Sherlock realised that he'd overstayed too. Jim would have got home a hour ago, and would be wondering where the heck his boyfriend had buggered off to, without a note or a text or anything. Though it was weird that he hadn't been called back, maybe Jim was tired and opted for a nap and hadn't noticed…

No, no, he had to stop with the wishful thinking. That never did anyone any good. No, Jim hadn't contacted him because he wanted to see how deep a grave Sherlock would dig for himself. How long he'd disappear. What he'd say he was up to. It was because his boyfriend cared, of course – with Sherlock's past of substance abuse, keeping strict tabs on him was a necessity. Well, he hadn't used. Jim would be relieved….Oh, who was he fooling? Jim would be furious that he'd been made to worry in vain. Well, the longest he dillydallied the worse it'd be. Time to pay the tab and to go home to face his doom.

John didn't send as much as a text for five days. Well, Sherlock didn't either, so he could barely be blamed, could he? And no, it wasn't because the other boy had vanished from his mind entirely, or because there were no more funny sentences on Duolingo (there were), or because John didn't want to see him anymore. If anything, just the opposite.

It was because he could lie to himself before, say he just found Sherlock funny, and was fond of him, of course he was, who wouldn't? But after meeting him – after spending an afternoon under the other boy's spell – there was no denying he had a terrible crush on Sherlock Holmes. And that was more than a bit not good. Sherlock had a boyfriend, he'd known from the start.

Heck, he had a girlfriend – and the sheer fact he had to remind himself of it actively, as he was prone to forget the fact, said she deserved better than him. She'd become much more annoying since John had fallen for Sherlock – or perhaps he wasn't blind to her flaws anymore. Still, she loved him and Sherlock loved Jim and instead of going around rocking boats John should really try to reciprocate her feelings again…and staying the hell away from Sherlock was the only way to do that.

Or not, if his steamy dreams were any indication. He was fucked – only, sadly, not literally. Maybe getting back in contact with his friend was the way to go. It was impossible for the bloke to be really perfect, after all. Eventually they would have a row, and then John could breathe and stop thinking only of him.

He sent, _Sorry about being quiet, I have no idea where time went. Up for another coffee? It's my turn to offer you one._

 _Might not be wise for another couple of days. I'm not exactly_ was the immediate reply.

 _If you don't want to, that's fine, but pick another excuse. You're gorgeous. Even if your hair is greasy or you're in tracksuit, you'll still be more beautiful than anyone in the coffeeshop. :-)_ John replied, shaking his head. He hadn't pegged his friend as vain.

His blood went cold, receiving a partial selfie. It was little less than half a face, photographed all askew, but the yellowish tinge of bruises was in all too stark relief. Still, he tried for a joke. _Now I'm offended. Why wasn't I called to be your doctor?_

 _You're not a doctor. SH_ Quipping. Fine, quipping was good.

He typed quickly, _Not yet. But I'm still able to check that better than you or your IT boyfriend. Your address, please._

 _I can't. Jim wouldn't be happy about it. SH_ There was no emoticon, but it sounded so defeated John seethed receiving it.

 _Your future doctor friend will check out you didn't hurt yourself too bad. Why the everloving fuck would your boyfriend be upset?_

Sherlock panicked for a moment. How could he justify it? He should lie. He should have an excuse. But he was so tired of it – of keeping apart from everyone, and lying the few times he had to interact with anyone. Fuck it all. He was going to say the truth. _I didn't hurt *myself*. SH_

 _Sherlock, your address, now. Don't make me look you up through a combination of Google, university documents and seducing employees here and there. Your boyfriend and I need to have a talk._ John didn't add any emoticon this time. Even the more furious one would be laughably inadequate for what he was feeling.

Sherlock *might* have a weakness towards being ordered around, Jim certainly exploited it enough, and the tone was stern enough that he thought best to just concede. Besides, as easy as it would certainly be for John to charm people into giving up anything he desired, personal info included, the man had a significant other. Forcing him to use such means would be unfair.

He'd come around, talk to Jim, and Jim would explain that Sherlock deserved it – probably outing his boyfriend's junkie past in the process. Jim always managed to talk anyone round. He talked Mycroft into giving his blessings to their relationship, and Mycroft despised relationships on principle.

A ridiculous short time, and someone was ringing their bell – and when they didn't open immediately, knocking besides. Jim, who'd been in the next room working on some code while Sherlock texted, came to the door, fuming and waving his boyfriend out of sight.

Whatever Jim expected, he didn't expect a slightly shorter, stocky blond dude glaring at him in such a way that it would turn him to ashes if it was physically possible.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked, a none-too-gentle push ensuring Jim moved from the doorway and let him in.

Jim stumbled, but caught himself in a moment, and – with a smile that was all teeth – called, "Sherlock! Your _little_ paramour is here! Teach him some manners, will you?"

"I'm not…!" John yelled immediately, but his words died in his throat when he saw Sherlock scuttle in. It wasn't as bad as it looked on phone – it was _worse_. Sherlock had been trashed. By this scum? Sherlock had the height advantage – why hadn't he kicked his boyfriend's ass?

John ran to him, and started immediately assessing his friend's situation, with the gentlest of touches. Still, Sherlock flinched – uneasy eyes going to his boyfriend. "Luckily, nothing's broken," the medicine student sentenced, before turning a steely glare on Jim and hissing, "Luckily for you, I mean. I'm sure that'd be additional jail time."

"What?" Jim spluttered, apparently not expecting such a turn.

"I might be just a student, but I know what to do in case of domestic violence," John said, almost casually. He wasn't going to hit him. He wasn't going to hit the bastard…yet.

"That's not…" Sherlock started to protest. He wasn't a victim!

"Well, what would you do when your boyfriend disappears on you without as much as a note and you get a text from a friend showing him all cosy with a stranger?" Jim retorted, as if the blond was making absolutely no sense.

"Oh, I don't know…trust him? Talk to him? Anything that isn't assault? I'm not his paramour. But I am his friend, if a bit of an idiot one, and I'd be damned if I let you hurt him any longer. I don't even care if you press charges or not, Sherlock, but you don't have to stay here. Not if he can't behave like a human being," John ranted, glaring.

"You're not going, are you, Sherly? Because I won't take you back…and who will you have then?" Jim said, condescending as always.

"He'll have me, to begin with. And Mike – you can't not be friends with Mike, simply. And Molly – I bet you'd love her sense of humour. And Andy – he can be a bit of a puppy, but he's not bad. He'll have so many people it will just take too long to mention, because he should be far, far away from you as soon as possible. And sure, none of us might be a boyfriend, but it's better to have a dozen good friends that an abusive asshole of a boyfriend. I promise, Sherlock," John declared earnestly.

"I can stay with you?" the chemist asked, sounding hesitant.

"Of course you do! Come on," the blond urged, offering his hand. He was tempted to drag the man out of here, but that'd be exactly the wrong thing to do. With a soft smile, Sherlock's fingers entwined with his own.

"You can't be serious! Do you think I'll just let you steal my boyfriend? You cannot just up and leave!" Jim yelled, occupying the doorway again, angry and shocked.

"Give me an excuse, you piece of shit," John murmured, voice soft and controlled and all the more scary for it. "I'm not your boyfriend. I'd love to get back at you for what you've done. And I've been the best hooker in all the rugby teams I've played for. Want to try it with someone who's not afraid of a scuffle?"

At that, Jim moved with considerable swiftness…but still not enough to evade John's fist – and the bastard was lucky he was using his non-dominant hand, the other holding onto Sherlock…who blushed. Of course he blushed – he'd never been defended, much less with so much…passion. Thank God that John didn't notice, as he was keeping his eyes forward, only focused on leaving as soon as possible…and bringing him along, for some mysterious reason.

Then Sherlock did what he did best – summoned a cab out of thin air – and they were ensconced in, legs touching, and John gave his address. The brunet was quiet, and tried not to think about it. About John rushing in like a knight in shining armour and taking him away from his tower. He was _not_ a damsel in distress. Then why did he feel that way?

They got to the flat, and Sherlock allowed John to take care of him, even if there was little to do so long after it happened – but the soft, soothing touches were a balm for more than his body. John showed him the flat, then realised he'd dragged his friend away without allowing him to get so much as a tootbrush, and waved the problem away – he did have some extra toiletries for guests, and Sherlock could borrow some of his pajamas for tonight. "We can go back tomorrow and get your things – preferably when that asshole is out. I'll come with, so no worries even if we meet him."

The chemistry student wanted to ask why – why John was doing this at all, why he cared, why was he messing with Sherlock's feelings this way. He was already obsessed with his new friend – had been since the start, to be honest – and he was afraid that his feelings would be overstepping what John would like – if they didn't already – very very soon. How was he supposed to be a proper guest when he longed for the man? He'd go mad.

Which was why he was so relieved when the girlfriend – Mary – came back. "Oh, you're an open couple, it makes sense. Then do you want to include me in some sort of game, is that why you saved me, John? I mean, I'm strictly gay, but I'm not against experimenting, as long as you keep her from touching me," he remarked airily. So John wanted him for some sort of fantasy. His kindness finally made sense. Only, twin screeches of, "What?" echoed, shocking him. What had he said? Was he supposed to let them tackle the subject?

"Liar!" she screamed furiously.

John turned towards him, brow furrowed, and asked "Why do you say that?"

Well, Sherlock accepted as true many things shouted at him – that he was a freak, a sociopath, an idiot (only if compared to Mycroft or Jim's best moments of brilliance, though), weird-looking, and the list could go on – but he wasn't a liar. At least when deductions were involved. So, instead of backing down, he huffed in frustration, throwing his arms in the air, "Oh, come on, look at her knees! She's clearly been kneeling, and she'd hardly offer to scrub the floors at whatever study group she went, would she? She doesn't have the least trace of guilt or nervousness, so I thought that you knew and approved. If you don't, it means it's not the first time she's done it, and knows that you're oblivious enough not to notice and enquire."

"I'm starting to appreciate whoever knocked you around like that. I'm sure it was richly deserved," the woman hissed, glaring and taking a threatening step towards him.

"What the actual fuck, Mary?" John retorted sternly, stepping between his girlfriend and his guest. "For the record, no, he didn't deserve it – his boyfriend is an abusive asshole. But you get discovered and your automatic reaction is to threaten? Not, you know…apologise, maybe?"

Mary snorted at that. "Apologise? As if you didn't betray me for weeks. Not that I minded, because you know, I figured out you'd discovered what I was doing, until you asked, 'what,' right now, and if you wanted to get even, your privilege. You were still considerate and helpful and going along was easier than rocking the boat. But if you didn't know, you were cheating on me first in your head – so why should I apologise because we deserve each other?"

"I've never cheated on you, don't be ridiculous!" her boyfriend protested.

"You were daydreaming all the time…and not about me," she jeered back, with a defiant look.

That shut John up, but Sherlock deemed his turn to intervene. "Dreams don't count. A high percentage of the population actually fantasises about things they would never do in real life," he pointed out.

"You stay out of it, or I'll send you back to that boyfriend of yours," Mary snapped, glaring.

"That's it. Out, Mary," John ordered sternly. She raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Look, we might have eventually solved the cheating matter, maybe, forgiven each other or something…but this? Suggesting someone who's already been hurt go back to the person who beat them? Why are you even studying as a nurse, I wonder, if you don't care about people at all? Out. I'm not joking. I can give you his boyfriend's address, if you want. You would certainly be better suited to each other than we ever were," John declared, crossing his arms.

"You're serious," Mary stated, after a long, assessing look.

"'Course I am," John confirmed. "Out, now. You can make a suitcase if you want, but I'll expect you out of the house in fifteen minutes at most."

"No need," she spat at him, turning on her heels. "You'll regret this, John, mind my words."

The slam of the door was accompanied by John's heartfelt, "The fuck I will."

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled.

"What? Why?" the blond asked, turning towards him.

"I didn't mean to cause you to fight with your girlfriend. Now you'll be angry at me," the young chemist stated.

"Angry? Christ, Sherlock, I'm grateful. How could I not realise that she was such an awful excuse for an human being before, I don't know. This wasn't us fighting – this was us breaking up, and I do hope I'll never see her again. That she could be so…so…I don't even have the words. You saved me, by opening my eyes," John exclaimed, coming close. "Let's order dinner and just forget Mary. What do you fancy?"

'You,' Holmes wanted to say, but bit down on that, sure it would be more than a bit not good. "Chinese?" he asked instead, tentatively. With Jim, being asked usually meant to have to deduce what the other was in the mood for, and his…ex boyfriend?...was whimsical.

"Whatever you like," John said instead, beaming at him. "I must have a menu somewhere…"

He did, and they ordered, and then, waiting, just ignored their failed relationships and started chatting again. Once again they found out how easy it was, how random they could be and still find the other interested, even fascinated. John's rugby anecdotes, Sherlock's trivia on Chinese language, their professors' quirks…they just stared at each other and let atmosphere weave a web of happiness around them.

So much happiness, indeed, that Sherlock found himself distracted. When the meal arrived, he forgot himself, stealing bits from John's plate without thinking, which wasn't exactly good manners. Then again, the other didn't react in any way but by doing the same. For once, he'd left his brain's overthinking aside and followed instinct… which is how he found himself using a finger to catch a bit of stray icecream from John's lips to suckle it back in his mouth.

When John regained his breath – which had left him for a moment – he protested playfully, "Hey, that was mine!"

Whatever he expected, it was not for Sherlock to open his mouth invitingly and murmur, "Well, then come get it back," closing his eyes.

"Are you serious?" John had to ask. "I mean, it's not because…I don't know, I got you to safety, or something? You don't owe me anything, Sherlock, you do know that, right?"

The other boy sniffed. "Of course I know. But I believe _normal_ people," – and the way he stressed normal almost broke John's heart – "are also prone to something called 'rebound'. You said you've broken up with your girlfriend, I'm certainly not going back to Jim…You're attractive, and I know you're kind and I can trust you. I could do much worse going out tonight and pulling some random stranger."

The mere idea of Sherlock going to a club to find a random someone to fuck him into next week crushed John's heart in a vice. Rebound might not be wise, or a long-term arrangement, but it was something people did. Sherlock was definitely entitled to his own decisions, ill-advised as they might be, and if he wanted John…well, the future doctor wasn't about to deny him.

Only his silence seemed to have confused Sherlock, because he leaned away from him, blushed and mumbled in dismay, "Unless you…only girls?"

"Bisexual, actually," John hurried to point out, "and I'd be honoured to, I just couldn't believe to my luck – that someone like you could want _me_ , that is."

Before the brunet could point out how ridiculous and backwards that clearly was, John's lips were chasing his, and they got lost in the most brilliant first kiss.

Once they were forced to part by the need to breathe, John asked, "What do you like, gorgeous?" He just wanted to please Sherlock – so very much.

The other boy asked, "Just…go slow…?" Whenever Jim was in a rush, he'd always been left dissatisfied, and more than once in pain.

"Sure. Bedroom, now? If I take my time on the sofa, we'll both end with horrible cricks," the blond invited, holding out a hand.

Once again, Sherlock took it and smiled, dragging him rather than allowing himself to be led. And yet, inside the room he'd been given, he hovered next to the bed, not quite daring to lie down, for all that he wanted this – so much.

John understood him, and kissed him again, slow and languid, one hand going to caress dark curls, eliciting a deep moan. After a last interrogative look – to which Sherlock replied with an inflamed one – the medicine student started slowly unbuttoning his beloved's clothes, kissing each new patch of skin uncovered. He'd allow his tongue to flicker on sweet-salty skin, and nibble in the gentlest way.

Given that Sherlock's knees gave out on him, and he flopped sitting on the bed, and the soft moans and whimpers that left his mouth in an almost continuous litany, John was pretty sure he was doing well. Going further, he added roaming hands to his lips, feather soft on thankfully mostly pale skin (Jim hadn't done a number quite so cruel as he'd maybe hoped), just awakening eager nerves, until his lover arched into the touch, his own hands clutching fiercely at John's clothes.

"Do whatever you want," he reminded Sherlock softly, and at that, he found himself equally divested by quick, dexterous fingers.

Finally, they both arrived to their prizes, trousers shunned and pants following suit – by Sherlock's own hand, this time, as apparently John's slow was a bit too much of a glacial pace for him. John fumbled for the lube (he had it stashed pretty much everywhere, he had to admit), and Sherlock angled himself in the most convenient position – but still able to see his lover. God knows he needed it. Then the brunet mumbled, "I'm clean. I mean, really really clean. Both in health and…everything, you know."

"Is this a hint?" John asked playfully, a grin on his lips. "If so, you're in luck…because that's something I love to do." Afterwards, he went down and licked a broad strip on the inner side of Sherlock's cheek.

The yelp that elicited persuaded him this was a good idea, and he continued slowly, lapping and nipping around and finally getting to Sherlock's perineum and, ultimately, his rosy, lovely hole. Sherlock's entire body flushed, and the neighbours were definitely going to complain, given the volume of his screams, when John's tongue flirted with it, flicking in and out, then as deep as it would go and slow, making his lover buck wildly.

When Sherlock's wordless moans turned to "Please," and, "John," and, "Now," the blond finally gave that up and promised, "Soon." There was no way that was preparation enough. So – with plenty of lube, and happy knowledge from his anatomy courses – John started preparing him, slowly, making sure to stimulate his lover's prostate often.

Soon after, at his, "Patience, love, you wanted slow," Sherlock growled, "Now or I'll _murder_ you." So John chuckled and, finally, obliged him. Still, he kept their lovemaking slow and powerful, somehow managing to bank the pleasure up even more. Sherlock's legs caged him, long musician hands clutched and caressed, and before either of them had the presence of mind to touch the brunet's cock, Sherlock was already coming with a last scream of, "John!", his lover tumbling down that cliff after him.

Minutes later, John had wiped them off and was settling down at his side, spontaneously becoming the little spoon. Sherlock still clutched him, buried his lips against John's hair, and mumbled, "J'ai un aveu à faire."

The blond only vaguely hummed, already on the brink of sleep.

"Je suis désolé mais cette relation n'est pas un rebond pour moi, je suis tombé amoureux de toi il y a longtemps, mais je n'osais l'admettre, pas même à moi même," Sherlock continued.

"Moi aussi, miel," John assured softly, not understanding all of it but getting enough key words to know this was the proper response.

Sherlock was tempted to point out that the French did not use literally honey as an endearment, and the translation was a bit off. But with the combined effect of oxytocin and a bit of shock at his beloved's reassurance, he settled more comfortably around John and let himself fall asleep.

 _P. S. "J'ai un aveu à faire."_ _means, "I have a confession to make."_

 _"Je suis désolé mais cette relation n'est pas un rebond pour moi, je suis tombé amoureux de toi il y a longtemps, mais je n'osais l'admettre, pas même à moi même" means, "I'm afraid that ours isn't a rebound affair; I've fallen in love with you since a long time ago, but I didn't dare to admit it, not even to myself."_

 _"_ _Moi aussi, miel," means, "Me too, honey," – literally, as in the bees' product._


End file.
